


A Bond Between Us

by crypticAvarice



Category: Chill or be chilled - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Committed Relationship, Gen, I had a song in my heart that begged to be written, I'm so sorry TST, M/M, Reader Is Not Frisk, and a song in my fart that begged to be shitten, but I've decided that the reader character will be referred to in the same way she was in CoBC, fanfic of a fanfic, if you liked CoBC there is no guarantee you'll like this, is it a romance story if the characters are already together?, maybe some sci-fi shit, no real smut, this is not a sans/reader story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-10-22 08:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10693416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crypticAvarice/pseuds/crypticAvarice
Summary: (Read Chill Or Be Chilled First)When Mettaton leaves for a World Tour nearly twenty years after Shyren's death, not everyone is satisfied with simply being left behind.In fact, it seems everyone is interested in a little robot action* this time around!* = depending on your tastes this will be either the greatest fic ever or a huge disappointment





	1. Next Time, Put Your Phone On Silent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TotalSkeletonTrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotalSkeletonTrash/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Chill or Be Chilled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387672) by [TotalSkeletonTrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotalSkeletonTrash/pseuds/TotalSkeletonTrash). 



"Yes, darling. And I've already checked with Janet-- you know her, the one with the dragon on her shoulder, she did the lights for us last time we were in Vegas--and she's going to make certain that the lights on the whole tour will go smoothly. Yes-- You won't be put in the spotlight again. I promise. Yes, I--"

Mettaton cuts himself off again as the voice on the other end of the phone starts getting louder, hurrying through every syllable it has to say at an absurdly spitfire pace.

Peter looks to his side, away from the tablet in his lap. Threep's been at this for maybe an hour now. Too long. He can tell it's already starting to wear him down, having to do the whole talking-someone-down thing. But it's hard to say no to family, and especially family that you work with. Like, he gets it, you can't let that relationship flap around in the wind like some poor kid strung up on the flagpole by their underwear, not unless you want to start avoiding people at work and at family get-togethers.

So when family you work with needs your attention at... what is now one o'clock in the goddamn morning, you halt anything intimate that may or may not have been going down and you pick up that phone.

And the guy really does care! Peter knows how very, very much Mettaton cares. It's just that, this conversation, it keeps going in circles, with the same few concerns and the same few reassurances over and over and over, so Mettaton, by all stretches of the imagination, does not feel very listened-to right now, which is like, the _one_ thing he hates. Okay, maybe not just the one thing, but definitely a strong contender for the top three things that will get you put on a robot's shitlist.

... Actually, that probably exists? He should ask Threep sometime if he had a file like that hidden away somewhere in one of his drives, and if so, how he keeps that shit organized--

"Yes, yes. Look, darling-- Napstablook. Everything is under control. Nothing about this has changed for at least a month. I know... it's strange, doing this without her. It doesn't feel right to me, either. As if, even though I know everything is in place, that nothing has been forgotten, there is still something missing. But it's time," Mettaton sighs, rolling over and kicking his legs up onto the headboard.

"We haven't forgotten her, or abandoned her, or anything like that. Nobody would ever think that's what we're doing. But we need to move on. Both of us. Which is why--

_which is why--_

... Yes, yes, darling... I know that's not what you meant by it. I apologize. But please let me suggest that the best course of action right now, in any case, is to not dwell on this. There's nothing to be gained by worrying about something that you are not in charge of. Find your peace with the future by accepting the past."

He drags a hand through his hair, gently teasing out a few snarls as Napstablook responds. Peter catches his gaze for only a second for a quick eyebrow raise before it's time to speak again.

"That sounds like a good idea. Now, I've got to get going-- I know, I'll call you later to check up on you. Remember, it's only a year. Yes. I love you too. Goodbye."

Groaning, Mettaton ends the call, drops the phone next to him on the bed, and falls still.

"' _Only a year_?'" Peter drawls, knowing he's stirring up dirt in a sandstorm.

"Peter." Mettaton warns.

"Only a YEA--"

"PETER."

Okay, yikes, fine. Doesn't feel like talking for a bit. Needs to decompress or whatever. He can leave Mettaton alone for a bit, he has other things he can do that aren't ruffling feathers.

He looks back at his tablet screen and flicks between a few tabs. Quarterly review. Robotics article. Politics article. Funny picture of a parrotfish that he sent to Sans earlier. Message from Dot that he's still gotta look at eventually. That game app that he started playing with two weeks ago until it became exhausting to keep track of all the things he needed to do in it everyday. Nothing catches his attention.

"... I could learn guitar in that time," he mutters when the silence becomes too much.

Mettaton doesn't even move. But he can't have gone into sleep-mode so early, right?

"... Or like, become a welder," he tries again.

No response.

"I could go on a bike tour around Europe, or learn taekwondo, or join some deep sea fishing crew! You know, completely change the course of my life with just one decision."

Nnnnothin.

He sighs and tilts his head back against the headboard.

"Look, I'm just saying, they're all worked up over doing this world tour or whatever, which is fine, totally, one hundred percent, I hope they feel better, but I'm the one that isn't gonna see my most favorite monster in the whole wide world for a whole fucking year. Honestly, why aren't there, I don’t know, two of you yet? Like, remote control that shit. Just have two bodies wandering around the globe or like, once you're done for the day in fucking Italy or France or whatever you can upload your soul back home. Problem solved. You can be the global super-star you’re super fucking good at being by day and we don’t have to settle for phone calls at five in the morning every time you’re done. And okay, I mean, actually, second thought, it took Alphys something like a year to fabricate all the muscles in your hand and it's basically a pain-staking, expensive as hell process when you've got what amounts to a top-of-the-line, custom, full-body magical prosthetic, and she doesn't have a lot of free time anymore, so I can kind of see why there's some financial and time constraints to having two bodies but..." he rambles, like he just can't help himself, like every thought jumps off his tongue before he can think it.

He looks back at Mettaton, who has uncovered his eyes sometime during the spiel.

"Favorite _monster?_ " Mettaton asks, sounding a little tired, a little annoyed, but maybe a little amused, too.

Heh. And of course he'd get caught up on that.

"Well, uh, yeah. Duh. Because _I'm_ my favorite person. So until I figure out how I can suck my own dick--"

"Mmmhm."

"--or I figure out how to go full Jekyll and Hyde, I gotta keep you around to fill that position," Peter finishes, leaning over a bit to rest his head on Mettaton's thigh and smiling.

Mettaton manages to smile a little too, through his weariness. "Oh, I've got a few positions of yours that I can fill."

"Thhheeeeere he is. Hey, welcome back, Threep!" he beams. "But uh, you know, not that I don't love what you're suggesting right now..."

He pauses as Mettaton's hand plays with the coarse, dark hair right below his navel, distracted and lazy. Just kind of... admires that year's worth of work that went into the flawless articulation of an opposable thumb.

He sets his tablet off to the side on the nightstand and lets his hand rest on Mettaton's hand. “... But I’m really not up for that. Maybe an hour ago, but now it would be a whole thing and I gotta be up in the morning…”

“Oh, of course,” Mettaton says, stilling his hand. “Then I suppose I really shouldn’t be starting anything again…”

He laughs. “Hey, I wouldn’t mind finishing something quick. You ever see The Italian Job?”

“Er... No?”

“Oh, it’s this heist movie from-- know what, not important. Point is that I’m gonna show you something a million times better that’s gonna last a fraction of the time.”

Mettaton seems satisfied by the implication. He threads his fingers through Peter’s as he leans over the robot, pressing his lips against supple metallic ones, savoring each contented sound Mettaton makes as his hand runs further up his thigh and that awful phone call grows farther and farther away in the moment, until it disappears, until they’re the only things left in each other’s worlds, until he’s also got Threep’s hand wrapped around his--

Until the door slams on its lock (thank god), and whoever was _trying_ to get in crumples to the ground with a small “ow”.

He waits, prays that they’ll go away, that maybe Threep will put his hand back instead of sitting up on his elbows to stare at the door. But of course they don’t. Of course! Instead there’s a bunch of rapid knocks at the door, because there was just no way he was going to be allowed to have the rest of this night with Threep to himself.

“Which one of you is that!” He shouts, but he already knows, and he’s already climbing out of bed trying to find where his boxers got thrown, and Mettaton is already… putting himself away? Getting decent?

“Just Dot!” she replies.

Peter groans. This kind of visit, then.

He opens the door, just a crack. Enough to stare the little shifter down.

“It’s one in the morning,” he points out.

“Yep! But it’s kind of--”

“What’s the rule when Mettaton’s home?”

“Don’t disturb you guys after, like, eleven, unless it’s an emergency, which, it kind of is?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What’s a ‘kind of’ emergency.”

“She needs one of us for something that isn’t life or death, Peter,” Mettaton chimes in, resting his head on his shoulder and peering through the crack. “And I think we should respect her judgement about what’s worth our time, even at this time of night.”

Peter opens his mouth to complain, but Mettaton keeps going. “What do you need, little one?”

Dot takes a breath. “Sooo the security alarm went off, right--”

“What.”

“... Did it?” Mettaton asks, lowering his brows.

“Uh, yeah, we shut it off so we wouldn’t wake you up--”

Capra snorts. “Yeah, well, we weren’t sleeping--”

“Peter…”

There’s a very firm grip on his hip and he closes his mouth. Promptly.

Dot rolls her eyes.

“Aaaanyway, me and Cody and Haruhi shut it off cause we were up late watching, uh, _anime_ , and mom and dad and the aunties aren’t back from their aquarium dinner thing yet, and Cody thought he could get Delfin down-- Delfin’s back, by the way--”

“Oh, what the fuck.”

“Yeaaaah, he’s super high up there too, it probably saved his ass-- ANYWAY, Cody was going to try messing with the grid to get him down safe, and I told him not to and that we should get you guys to do it, but he went anyway and--”

Dot stops speaking when the lights in the house flick off. There’s a startled kind of yelp outside, too, that he guesses is Delfin breaking a limb on his trip down without power to keep him suspended in the grid. He sighs, letting his head fall against the doorframe.

“Okay. This is where the night is going. That’s fine. This is fine. Threep, you wanna deal with Delfin or go flip the breakers?”

 

\---------------------

 

“Well now, if it isn’t Delfin!”

Mettaton follows Dot outside to where Haruhi and their guest await, strutting toward the treeline as if it were a stage. And, well, this couldn’t have been staged, actually.

Life has a way of being more funny, more outrageous, more _unbelievable_ than fantasy could ever hope to be.

So, Delfin, hanging from a maple tree by the seat of his jeans, twisted precariously in the branches, holding onto his mightily expensive and heavy camera for dear life?

Well.

It’s not _not_ funny.

“Heeey Mettatoooon,” he drawls, weakly raising a hand in greeting.

Mettaton grins at him. “It is always such a pleasant surprise when the paparazzi turn out to be you. You’re so persistent, darling! I don’t think anyone else has lasted so long.”

“Yeah, well a good, uh, photographer… waits for the perfect shot? Or something?” He shrugs helplessly, and Mettaton chuckles.

“And climbs the tallest tree for it too, it seems. Your agency is working you hard these days!”

“Yeah, well, it’s either this or freelance, and at this point only one of those options has healthcare? So you can see how I’m a little… stuck.”

“Oh, I’m seeing it right now.” Mettaton says, stepping back a bit and surveying the tree. “It’s just… Darling, it would be far less dangerous if you knocked at our front door instead any time you wanted to hang around and wait for the perfect shot.”

“... Wait, was that pun on purpose?”

“Come on, Delfin, you know he can’t do those _on porpoise_ ,” Dot crows. “... Get it? Because your name means--”

“I GET IT,” he yells back with such force that the branches beneath him begin to crack. He freezes.

“Now is a good time to get him down, I suppose,” Mettaton mutters to himself, eyeing the tree.

Haruhi scuffs her talons against the ground. “Sorry Tonton, I tried earlier while Dot was gettin’ you, I just couldn’t…” she trails off, nodding her head toward the clawed up trunk. “I couldn’t get a grip.”

He smiles. “Oh, dearest. If one solution doesn’t work, simply try another. So, if you can’t get a grip… rely on your _momentum_."

He doesn’t wait for her to ask for clarification. He charges the tree, taking two steps up the trunk and leaping for the nearest branch. It sways as his hands connect, and he pulls himself up to the applause of two scaly little hands. He looks down and winks at Haruhi, then continues climbing, as smooth and practiced as an acrobat on a trapeze.

(He’s only had the good fortune to do trapeze twice in his life, so far.)

“Oh shit, wait, aren’t you wearing heels? Do you REALLY do all your own stunts?” Delfin asks, squinting down.

“Yes! I really do!” Mettaton calls back.

“I thought that was just cgi!”

He rolls his eyes and pulls himself up another branch. “Darling, you should really watch the extras when you watch my movies.”

“Don’t have time to watch your movies, too busy stalking you, daaaarlliiing,” Delfin taunts.

Mettaton tightens his lips, glaring at Delfin just in time for his camera to go off. He smiles back. Cheekily.

“Oh, god, that’s gonna be blurry as hell but it’s soooo gonna be wORTH I--”

The branches holding Delfin in place snap and crack and he goes plummeting.

Mettaton, literally, reacts as fast as lightning. He reaches out and grasps Delfin’s shirt, and then the branch beneath him gives too under their weight, the branches this low are always so dry and fragile this time of year, and for a moment they’re both falling rather ungracefully out of a tree.

The precise movements needed to do this right come so naturally to him.

He twists his torso, throwing himself beneath Delfin, in the way of all the branches that break against and scuff up his chassis, and Delfin is screaming so, so loud. But he’s safe, and now he just needs to land on his feet, and it’s a simple thing, but the ground comes so much sooner than he expects.

He lands on his feet, Delfin in his arms, and something in his right knee grinds and snaps.

It’s… worrisome.

Delfin rolls out of his arms, panting and sweaty, sprawling out across the cool summer grass. “Oh my god.” He says. “I thought we were gonna die. Holy cow.”

Mettaton slowly, carefully, stands up. At first, nothing seems wrong, but then he takes a step towards Delfin and-- oh. Something in his knee is out of place, he’s certain, and it’s grating against something _else_ , and he grits his teeth because it’s not what he imagines pain is like but it certainly, certainly feels wrong.

He bends over and snatches Delfin’s camera away, holding it high in the air.

Delfin reaches after it. “Hey! My camera…!”

“Will be returned to you after we make sure nothing embarrassing is on there, hm?” Mettaton says sweetly. “Not for me. I look good at any angle, as you know, darling. But other people in the house…”

He glances at Dot and Haruhi, then up at Peter and Cody, jogging toward the scene from the back of the house. “... They have so much more... _fragile_ public personas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey sexy, welcome to the end notes
> 
> this chapter got away from me and i'm still finding my voice. and i think you'll find that, much like your grandma's car, it's gonna be a pretty bumpy ride at first
> 
> hang tight / hang loose, maybe i'll get somewhere with this
> 
>  
> 
> I would like to take a moment and thank TotalSkeletonTrash for such a gorgeous story though. I wouldn't be writing this if I hadn't been so inspired, so moved by her work.
> 
> And so, like when all good stories end, I realized the only way I would get more of it was if I wrote it myself.
> 
> dis fic for me


	2. Next Time, Play A Blue Deck Or Like Maybe Infinite Meteors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup babes im coming at u from the front this time cuz i got some things to say to u
> 
> i fucced up my timeline. so i had to change some things in chapter 1. here's the changes in cause ur like me and u cant do I Spy for shit
> 
> 1) the trip length has been changed from 6 months to 1 year. way more worthy of The Drama  
> 2) it's now summer instead of spring
> 
> turns out even when you carefully plan things they can still go right to shit
> 
> okay here's the chapter even tho not a lot happened in it that i needed to happen in it, kiss your trash mom for me, lov u, bye

“Are you guys sure about, uh, inviting me into your home? Like… you’re kind of high-profile targets. If any of the other paparazzi caught wind of this…” Delfin starts saying, holding an icepack on his shoulder and perched on the edge of the couch.

Mettaton shrugs, and kicks his feet up onto the ottoman. “I think you’ll find that in a profession as competitive as yours, you need to play up your connections. They'll just have to settle with the fact that they're not the ones with an _in_ on one of the most famous people in the world, and you are.” He says, pulling a cord out from behind his ear and plugging it into the camera.

“He's right, you know,” Peter mutters from the floor, carefully considering his hand of cards. “You gotta play what you got. Fuck anyone who tries to get in your way cause they weren’t as fortunate. We like you, so what. I dont see THEIR moms sending us cookies.” He looks up at Dot, sitting across the coffee table from him, and places a card on the table. “Tapping two mountains, summoning goblin piledriver. Your move.”

Delfin squints. “Cookies…? You mean that time she sent you polvoron to apologize? Is she still sending those to you guys?”

“Yeah. Mom Liked The First Batch So Much They Started A Dessert Trading Ring. I Think Mrs. Parekh And Tommy Might Be In On It Too,” Cody says, deigning to look up from his phone and the pile of old dusty texts next to him.

“Wow… my mom is better at my job than I am.”

“Only at networking,” Mettaton corrects, flicking through the hundreds of shots stored on Delfin’s camera on the back of his right eye. Many of the shots are from earlier that day, spending time lounging at the beach together as a family. There’s a handful of him and Peter together, wandering away from the rest of the group, and even more of him alone, rapturously beautiful with the seaspray behind him, casually tossing his hair. If he didn't know better, he would have thought some of these came from a shoot! But more interesting, still, is that there are a fair amount of shots of Dot, clothes billowing and the sunlight in her hair, candid, yet perfectly timed to flaunt all the best angles of her figure…

… and all, functionally, worthless to paparazzi and their tabloids. There is no way to tell if this is all Dot or three different guests at the mansion.

Mettaton glances up at Delfin. He's resting his head in his hand, drowsily watching Dot now as she draws and discards cards, lips parted gently. Dot begins to smirk at the cards in her hand, unaware that Delfin is smiling now too, absently playing with the band of his sports bra.

A crush, then.

Mettaton smiles to himself and flicks to the next image. The smile fades.

“Oh… my. Er. Peter? Could you come look at this?” He asks.

“Yeah, hold up a sec, I'm about to beat the kid here in a few turns,” Peter responds, taking a sip of scotch and laying down a card. He sits back, crossing his arms and looking smug. “Your move.”

“Don't worry Uncle Mettaton, I’ll have him over there sooner than that.” Dot smiles, turning a card and laying a small piece of paper on the table in front of her. “So that’s a one-one squirrel token, right? Cause I tapped that forest?”

Peter eyes her, and brings the glass of scotch back to his lips. “Right.”

“So now I'm gonna exile this card and get another mana, and play Earthcraft… and tap my squirrel, which allows me to untap my forest, so I can tap my forest and get another squirrel…”

He stares at her in disbelief. “Are you playing infinite squirrels.”

Dot looks so, so pleased with herself. “I'm playing infinite squirrels.”

“Fucking…”

“Gonna beat me on your next turn?”

“Uh.” He supplies, and draws a card, skimming it. “... No. I'm not. Fuck.”

She rests her head in her hands, grinning. “Wow Uncle Pete, I can't believe you kicked my ass sooo swiftly.”

“Ssshut it. Fuck. I’d be so mad at how _Sans_ of a move that was if I wasn't so proud,” He says, smiling a little. He downs the rest of his drink and stands up.

“My turn!!” Haruhi yells, rushing to take his place at the table.

Peter sits on the armrest next to Mettaton, putting an arm around his shoulders. It's a warm, comfortable weight. “So, what am I looking at? Cool picture of you?”

Mettaton makes a small, uncomfortable sound, like a squeaky wheel got caught in his throat. He brings the image up on the inside of his forearm, and tries to wrestle control over the blush that's fighting its way onto his face. It's fine, he tells himself, that Peter won't be angry about this, or blame him, that all of these worries are so unbased in anything he knows about Peter…

“Oh. OH.” Peter shouts, his eyes widening. “Oh, wow. That's a cool picture of… us? Our dicks? A hot picture of us and our dicks?”

Mettaton feels relief crash down on him. Peter was always so much less affected by these things. It's… easy, to take his lead.

“Oh god, wait, what picture are you guys talking about?” Delfin asks, sitting up just a little straighter, all of his attention on Mettaton and Peter.

He looks down at his forearm with Peter. “Er, it's this very lovely shot of me and Peter this evening in our bedroom, back-lit orange, taken from outside, of course, and we are kissing, only…”

He stares at the picture, struggling with the words.

“I’m being pressed up against the window. Naked,” Peter finishes for him.

They look up at Delfin, who looks a little horrified. “Oh god,” he whispers, “I am so sorry. I thought I deleted that, I was waiting for a good shot because I thought I heard you guys arguing and then…”

“... You got an eyeful of something good?” Peter drawls, raising a brow even as Mettaton shoves him with his shoulder.

Delfin’s ears are flushed red. “Oh my god…”

Mettaton chuckles, so glad to no longer be the one mortified. “Don't worry darling, I'll delete it right now,” he says.

But he hesitates, his finger hovering over the button, and finds himself gazing at the photo again. On one hand, it's strange, because that is him and Peter, in an instance where he could truly be caught off-guard, but at the same time it's that vulnerability and honesty that makes it… sweet. Loving. Erotic, but not vulgar. Or maybe he's letting his feelings for Peter color his experience of the photo. He doesn't know.

… He saves the photo to his hard drive and deletes it from the camera.

Closing his eyes, he tilts his head back against Peter’s chest, and resumes flicking through the rest of the several hundred photos.

The living room is silent like this for awhile. Cody and Peter on their phones, Dot and Haruhi shuffling cards, Delfin dozing off in the crook of the couch. Before Mettaton really even realizes it, he's reached the end of the photos. He deleted a few of you and Sans looking grumpy on the porch swing, but other than that...

“You know, it was a perfectly good shot otherwise, despite being so… voyeuristic,” he says with a sigh, pulling the cord out of the camera and letting it spool back to his hairline. “Many of these photos are, Delfin. You _do_ have potential. I know the curator for one of the local galleries, if you’d like to show your work someday? Perhaps build a name for yourself for when being a paparazzo no longer suits you?”

Delfin stirs on the couch, looking at Mettaton blearily and with something like melancholy.

“God, you know, thanks for the offer, but… I can't. That's too generous of you,” he replies, standing up and stretching. “And I don't think I'm ready.”

“Darling, you’re ready, _trust me_ , if you'd just let me call--” Mettaton begins to say, but there's a telltale jingle of keys and doorknob jostles that mark the end of the night, and Delfin is already taking his camera back.

“Nah, really. Thanks for letting me in, but I gotta get back to my car,” he says, and gives Mettaton the icepack. “I didn’t exactly park somewhere legal.” He does a half-jog to the front door, and with barely a sound, he's gone.

Undyne rounds the corner from the kitchen a second later, carrying a passed-out Alphys over her shoulder. She pauses for a second, just about to ascend the stairwell.

“Wow. You guys are still up?” she croaks, one eye scanning the room of teenagers plus two men.

Mettaton nods.

“Geez. You guys and your youth.” She grins, toothy and a little tired. “Well, I gotta get this party animal into bed, and Sans and _____ already cut a door into their room, so don't let me catch any of you staying up all night, you hear? That goes double for you, Capra. You're a super bad influence.”

“The worst,” Peter agrees, giving her a little wave. She waves back, and then she's gone, disappearing into the darkness.

He looks at the three teens left in the room with them.

“Well, I'm not your guys’s dad, so like, I'm not going to do any of that. Don’t burn the house down.”

He takes Mettaton by the hand and pulls him out of the chair like a true gentleman, and they both walk down the hall, side by side, into their room, still dimly lit with the sheets all tousled about on the bed.

The first thing Mettaton does is draw the curtains closed.

And then… Peter's arms are around his waist, and his lips are pressed just below Mettaton’s ear, and oh, he could melt, Peter was so _good_ at this, these quiet moments together. He leans back into that warm embrace, grinning.

“So,” Peter starts growling into his ear.

“ _So_ ,” he growls right back, placing his hands on Peter's and rolling his hips back.

“Why are you favoring your left leg?” Peter continues, unfazed.

Mettaton sucks air through his teeth and grimaces. “When did you notice?”

“Just now, actually? How long has it been like that?”

“Only since we rescued Delfin from the tree. I think… I must have landed wrong,” Mettaton explains. He turns to face Peter, avoiding his gaze, waiting to be… mocked, he supposes. Instead he feels Peter's fingers comb into his hair and cradle his head affectionately, and he lets himself be guided onto the bed.

“I have never seen you land wrong,” Peter points out. “Or like, do just about anything wrong? You're like a cat! Or some kind of robotically enhanced supercat that can jump down five stories no problem. Or bench fifty times its weight. Point is, you don't do things wrong? What happened?”

“... I don't know,” Mettaton admits. “It could have been any number of things.”

Peter seems satisfied by the answer, or at least quieted. He sits beside Mettaton, comfortably letting his hand rest on the smooth, cool plastic surface of a robotic thigh.

“... Do you want me to take a look at it? I don't know much about robots but--”

“That won't be necessary,” Mettaton interrupts, suddenly feeling like all of his limbs have too much energy. “I'll speak with Alphys tomorrow morning. It's Saturday, surely she'll have time. I'll live with it until then.”

He can feel Peter staring at him, clearly deciding whether or not he was going to push this.

“... Okay,” Peter finally relents, and all the tension just evaporates from Mettaton.

He watches as Peter gets up and starts undressing, tossing dark, muted clothes into the hamper and stretching. And, oh, Mettaton might not be able to appreciate how easily Peter is battered and broken himself, but he could certainly appreciate the proportions of his back, and how each muscle moves under the skin, lithe and sinewy and especially, especially when it tightens beneath his touch…

The lamp is turned off and it's almost a matter of unspoken habit, that Peter climbs beneath the sheets and Mettaton meets him there, that they share a kiss that becomes two or three or more, that holding a jaw becomes gripping an ass, that as they try to press closer and closer to each other with sleepy murmurs of “I love you” and “ _yes, please_ ” they press each other's hands where they need them and encourage and encourage until the kisses become so strong they could bruise Peter’s lips, until Mettaton is the one getting up and finding something they can clean up with because Peter would surely trip over thin air with the room this dark and one of the perks of being a robot was that you never misplaced your flashlight.

When he climbs back into bed, after everything is cleaned and it's so late at night it's ridiculous, Peter wraps his arm around him and eases a leg between his thighs. And he's content to lay there, quietly, enjoying the magic of an afterglow, when Peter speaks up again.

“A whole year, huh?” He whispers, slowly running his fingers over Mettaton’s plating.

Mettaton nuzzles his head into the pillow, relaxing. “Mmhm. It'll be hard, but… it's nothing we’re not used to. And I'm sure we'll see each other sooner than that, Peter. Christmas, certainly. I'll be here for Christmas.”

“Christmas…” Peter sighs, and buries his face into the back of Mettaton's neck. “Can I at least drive you and Napstablook to the airport next week? I'll take home work if I have to. I want to see you off.”

“Well you just saw me _off_ …” Mettaton murmurs, and laughs when Peter lightly kicks his ankle.

“Jackass.” Peter says.

“Dick.” Mettaton replies.

Soon, they both fall still.


	3. Next Time, Schedule An Appointment

Alphys doesn’t have time for him Saturday. She's groggy and flustered, and has a meeting with a few of her grad students, and has papers to grade because summer has the accelerated courses and she was picked to do a few of them this year and she was still battling the board to get tenure and she apologizes over and over and Mettaton says _it's fine_ each time, that he had planned for this week to be spent quietly at home anyway, that phone calls and paperwork didn't require him to run and he could still _walk_ , but it doesn't stop him from hovering around her waiting for a spare moment anyway.

He hates when he does that. He hates it when people don't have time for him. No, that's wrong. Unhelpful. He… hates it when… he feels ignored and unimportant.

He spends most of that evening draped across Peter, and he’s tired from sucking up to shareholders and the presidents of other companies all day, so even when he tries to talk to him… Well, he can tell Peter’s trying, but his heart isn't in it, and the banter falls flat and moody.

Sunday isn't promising either, when Gaster calls about needing help in his lab, that he's _terribly_ sorry, that it just can’t wait, and Mettaton swallows that ugly feeling when Alphys asks if it will be okay for another day, when he smiles and urges her to go, with a promise of tomorrow, after class, even as his limp grows steadily worse.

By the time Monday afternoon rolls around, he’s gripping the railing down to the cellar workshop a little too tight, holding onto doorframes to maintain his balance, and gritting his teeth whenever he steps wrong and his knee locks up. But still, he swallows that ugly feeling. Tells himself that he loves Alphys dearly, that even when he was falling apart and she was the only one who could fix him, he wasn’t _entitled_ to her help...

Alphys flips on the lights as she trails behind him into the workshop, rubbing her eyes and setting down her mug (“#1 Cool Dad”) next to what looks like a completely mangled robotic arm and several spools of knotted wiring. “S-sorry about yesterday, Mettaton. Go ahead and hop up on the table, and I'll t-take a look. If it's what I uh, think it is though, we might have to, uh, disconnect your leg for this,” she says, covering up a yawn.

“I figured as much,” Mettaton replies, hoisting himself up onto the table, laying his leg out for her. “I seem to have done quite a number on your work this time.”

“Yeah, I saw that limp! W-what did you do? Fall off the Eiffel Tower?” Alphys snickers, rolling over in a wheeled chair and snapping her thick-rimmed goggles into place. She bends over to grab her tools, testing their rotation a few times, and looks at him quizzically when he still hasn't responded.

He won't meet her gaze.

“Oh shit, is t-that uh, w-what actually h-happened?” she stammers.

“No. Worse.” He sighs, falling back against the table dramatically. “A _tree_.”

Alphys squeaks a little, covering her mouth. She at least has the grace to look a little sorry for it. “Oooh dear. If it was j-just that, I um… Might wanna do a full check-up today.”

“I have all day,” Mettaton says, closing his eyes. There’s a certain amount of _relief_ that comes with knowing that when he gets up from the table, his problem will be fixed. “And, well. I did try to fix it myself last night. Without you. But I couldn't disassemble past the outer casing…? No matter what I tried.”

“W-well of course you wouldn’t. Version 4.1.19 has the new proprietary assembly parts! You're made of some of the strongest stuff out there, so you should last at least 10 years without any tuneups on anything but casing wear, and apparently I was… wrong… and… also forgot to tell you?” she squeaks, seeing how he has begun to quirk his brow. “I'll uh. Give you some of the bits to add to your tool box. J-just... don't make copies of them. I've gotten these weird emails at work and…” She hesitates, and smiles painfully at him. “It'll be fiiiine. I've always gotten them, I j-just always like being pr-prepared. No one’s g-gonna get to you. Your body is more secure than even an iPhone X13!! Which, I mean, aren't that secure, plenty of people are able to do home repair with a little bit of work, but--”

Mettaton laughs. “Don't worry, Alphys. I understand. And I have an _excellent_ security team. I do want those tools, though.”

“I’ll get them to you before you leave,” she says, giving her tool a few experimental spins and then getting right to work disassembling his plating. “O-oh! A-actually, speaking of tools… How about the reviews on uh, your newest tool?” she asks, putting on her slyest smile and waggling her brows.

He gasps, bringing a hand to his chest. “Oh, please, Alphys! That is _crude,_ ” he chides. “I come to you, in my hour of need, and you ask me about such private details? For SHAME! I should have you sent to the dungeons.”

Alphys catches on quickly. “O-oh please, my l-lord! Spare me th-the dungeon! I am but a simple f-farmer, toiling in the d-d-dick fields day after d-day!”

“The dick fields?”

“The d-dick fields.”

“So you farm... dick.”

“Yessir, dick of all kinds. It's v-very popular!”

“And how is your crop this year? _Large?_ ”

“O-oh, uh, yes! Bountiful!”

Mettaton feigns boredom, inspecting the tips of his nails. “You must be a talented and knowledgeable advocate of your profession for such a harvest. Tell me your secret, and perhaps I will forgive your slight against me.”

“Pfff, that's easy. Y-you gotta keep the soil soppin’ wet for an easy plowing!!”

Mettaton chokes on a laugh, and Alphys gapes her mouth with glee. “You laughed!! That was a laugh!! I win! AGAIN!” she peals.

“Yes, yes. You reign supreme in this court,” he sighs. “But, your question. He seems to enjoy the tactile response-- Er, Peter, I mean. He… I think it's more natural for him. I don't really have an opinion either way. Maybe it's a little less sensitive?”

“Hm. I d-did have to increase the thickness between the shell and the nerves…” she mutters. “AH, here we go!!”

Alphys removes the last bit of intricate plating that protects and insulates his power cords. Squinting, she brings out a flashlight from beneath the table. “Bend your knee?” she asks, staring intently at the joint.

Mettaton obliges, steeling his expression as the grinding feels somehow _worse_ now.

“Oh. OOOOH,” she says, leaning closer and sticking a talon into his knee. “Yeah, w-we gotta disconnect your leg. One of your medial genicular cables broke, and without that to stabilize the rest of your knee it’s been loose in your socket and uh, damaging the other ones too. I gotta restring the whole thing.”

He groans.

“S-sorry, Mettaton. It's gotta happen, though. I can't just let you walk out of here like this and fall apart halfway onto the plane…”

“I know. Please, do what you must to keep me safe.”

She releases the hydraulics at his hip, and the immediate discomfort goes away, but… ugh. He’s gotten used to being complete and having _legs_ for so much of these past years...

“Th-this could take a while, though,” she whispers. “And if these cables w-were weak enough to b-b-break, then I should check on th-the rest of them too. We could b-be here for hours and I know you have other things y-you need to d-do…”

He wills himself to relax, and flashes a most dazzling smile at her. “Oh, please, Alphys. This is of no inconvenience to me. You’re doing me a _favor_ . And know that I cherish every moment I spend with my best friend, especially when we've grown so far apart as of late! I feel as though I haven't spoken to you since I got back from New York, we've both just been _so_ busy these past two weeks--”

She lays herself across him to give him a tight hug, burying her face against his chest. And, oh, she really was one of his most very favorite people. He lifts his hand to scratch behind her crest and hums comfortably, knowing to enjoy a good moment when it happens.

He's a bit alarmed when she begins to shake. “Alphys?” He prompts, lifting his head a bit.

“S-s-sorry. I-i-i-i’m j-just gonna m-m-miss you so mu-much,” she warbles, trying so desperately not to break down and cry, and something in him softens.

“Oh, darling! I'll be back for Christmas. And, well, I can't extend the same amount of phone availability I give to Peter to you, but certainly texts,” he says, running his hand soothingly down her back.

“I-i-i knowwww. It j-just feels so d-different this time, c-cause you're gonna be gone so long a-and be so f-far away so I can't ev-v-ven fix you if you get broken while you're g-gone and Haruhi is gonna miss you and Undyne too and the house is gonna feel so empty this time and Capra’s gonna be so mopey about it and I'm gonna miss you so much!!” Alphys wails, sitting up and drying her snot on her sleeve, taking deep breaths. Worked herself out of it, it seems.

Mettaton takes his hand back, smiling. “That is… all true. But, how about…” He takes her hand and places it on his chest, “We get through it one day at a time? I'm still here. Let's make the most of it now. Would you like to watch anime with me as you work?”

Alphys chokes out a little bit of a laugh. “Oh, no. I can't see the screen from that far away anymore. B-but, there's this podcast I've b-been meaning to show you!! I-if you wanna listen to that?”

“I’d love to. What is it about?”

Mettaton relaxes as she swings right back into being her old self, full of that blistering passion that burns brightly in her soul. He closes his eyes, making sure to pay attention even when she excitedly talks over her favorite parts, or apologizes for anything remotely slow or flat, to ask just the right questions to get her going again when she gets too quiet, just… enjoying this.

How good it was to always have a friend to drift back to, no matter how far life took you.

 

\-------------------

 

By the time Alphys is all finished with her repairs, and has helped him buff out all of the scuffs from falling out of a tree in his casings, (after only a little bit of pleading! Truly, she was a friend that cared if he looked his best,) dinner is already on the table.

And what an event every night, with a healthy dozen people living at the mansion! Well, more often ten, as Lesser Dog and A-Pup usually kept to the pool house and to his knowledge ate a veterinary-recommended diet, and even then, more often nine, because his work took him away so frequently…

“THAT'S NOT HOW A CONVENTION WORKS, SANS!”

“look i’m just sayin’ that maybe weird old men wouldn’t fall asleep at these things if there was somethin’ else going on too.”

And on occasion, only eight. But tonight was clearly ten.

He glides into the dining room after Alphys, as she’s already settling in next to Undyne and giving herself a heaping serving of casserole… whatever. Casseroles all, truly, look like the same cheesy, noodly mess to him. Efficient when needing to serve a large amount of people, yes, but the gastronomical equivalent of…  Oh, he doesn't know, taking a shotgun to a knife fight maybe? Sure, it will finish the job, but it's not going to be pretty and it _certainly_ doesn't require any sort of skill or artform...

He slides behind Peter’s chair and wraps his arms around him, kissing his temple softly and resting his head on his shoulder.

“WEIRD OLD MEN WOULDN'T FALL ASLEEP AT THESE THINGS IF THEY HAD EVEN THE TEENSIEST CONCERN FOR ANYONE BUT THEMSELVES! OR IF THEY LET ME SPEAK. I CAN REALLY HARNESS A CROWD AND GRAB THEIR ATTENTION YOU KNOW!” Papyrus shouts across the table at Sans.

“i don't doubt it paps, i’m just suggestin’ that maaaybe fireworks would brighten up your image.”

“SANS…”

“Yeah, that kind of impression would be explosive.”

“DOT!!”

“It Could Really... Spark Some Change…?”

“NNNNGGAAAAAAAHHHH!!!”

“nice.”

“Hey,” Peter greets Mettaton lowly through the noise, casually touching the sleek forearm casing and turning his head against impossibly soft synthetic strands. “Can I get a real kiss?”

“Mmm. I don't know,” Mettaton says, pressing his lips against Peter’s neck briefly before slipping away into his own chair. It’s a bit mean, he supposes, to bait him like this at the dinner table. But Peter cups his jaw and leans in to steal a kiss moments after, to his delight.

“… OH HI METTATON! YOU LOOK EXTRA SPARKLY TODAY!” Papyrus finally greets through his torment.

“Thank you, Papyrus,” he replies, putting an elbow on the table and holding Peter’s hand with the other beneath it. “You as well. Are you wearing a new foundation, or maybe a moisturizer?”

“YES, ACTUALLY! FROM YOUR STARTERRIFIC LINE!!”

Mettaton blinks. “The… one that was marketed to young teens…?”

“YES! IT'S EXACTLY AS YOU SAID ON TV! EASY TO APPLY AND KEEPS MY FACE ZIT-FREE!! AND SPARKLES. THE SPARKLES ARE VERY NICE. THEY’RE MY FAVORITE PART,” he says, caressing his face softly.

“Well! I've never seen quite a success story with that line as I have with you. I don't think I see a single bump on your face! If only I could get you in for a testimonial, darling. Sales would go through the roof.”

“THANK YOU! BUT MY SCHEDULE IS COMPLETELY BOOKED. I KNOW IT'S A HUGE LOSS NOT HAVING MY INCREDIBLE SUCCESS TO RELY ON TO BOOST YOUR SALES, BUT PLEASE ACCEPT MY CONDOLENCES.”

“Well then, if you guys are DONE,” Undyne says, shooting Sans and Mettaton A Look, “I wanna ask my wifey how her day was ‘cuz I haven't seen her allllll daaaaay. Did you and the fancy tin can have fun? Is he gonna fall apart anytime soon?”

“W-well, not anymore!” Alphys says triumphantly through a mouthful of casserole. “U-um, I can't go into details, uh, doctor… patient… confidentiality? BUT he won't be falling apart!! At least, not until after Christmas, when I’ll have more cable m-made up. I’m still waiting on Muffet to send me a spool for that… I thought I had more but, gosh, I guess I used it all up repairing N-Nat’s leg and forgot to restock!  So as long as he doesn't, uh, walk an elephant or try to redirect traffic until then, his arm shouldn't tear off like a p-p-paper tow...ellll…….” she trails off, having perhaps realized that she just blew the confidentiality of several patients in one go.

Her scales are flushed red.

“U-um. M-my recommendation was to bring along spare parts from previous models just in case any of his broke. The casings should st-still fit the same and when he’s on the stage nobody will know unless they're looking.”

“Hey, that's good, right?” you say, entering the room with a high stack of boardgames in your arms. “I mean, not that I expect him to fall apart? But if anyone could make it work, it's proooobably Mettaton.”

“Thank you, darling. I'm glad at least one person has faith in my abilities,” Mettaton drawls with a flourish of his hand.

“he’s got a funny way of taking everything as a compliment.”

“Good, because it was meant as a compliment, bonehead.” You push Sans a little, lovingly, and look back up at him. “So when are you guys leaving? Do you need a ride to the airport? I could give you a ride, it's really not a problem--”

“Oh darling, you're always just too kind!” He laughs. “I'm afraid Peter already claimed that honor, however. I think he may even _miss_ me this time. How long it’s been since that has happened!”

“ _Ha,_ ” Peter says, pointedly, crossing his arms. It's just a little too easy to make fun of him.

“Ohhhh, okay, I see,” you say, smiling deviously. You don't go farther than a knowing look at Peter, though. “SO, before we start family game night, Dot. Daughter of mine. Cleverest girl. Shining star in my sky. Have you signed up for classes yet?”

Dot groans so dramatically, flopping herself over the table bonelessly, that she gives Mettaton a run for his money. “No, Mom. Registration doesn’t begin for like, another _two_ weeks.”

“Do you at least have your classes picked out? Second and third choices? Have you looked at any of those professor review apps? You gotta be strategic about this, there's thousands of other students hounding for the good professors, and you could get left in the dust if you don't have this deal down to a three minute stop’n’shop,” Peter instructs.

“Capra... “ You warn him.

“No, no, it's cool, look, it's just, I'm the only person this house who’s gone through this process before--” Alphys snorts incredulously at him, “-- _from a student perspective,”_ He forces, glaring at her. “So I'm the most qualified to give her any of the help she needs.”

“k cap, you keep believing that,” Sans says, kicking his feet up onto the table and grinning.

“Well I AM,” he says, throwing his hands in the air.

“I don't even know what I want to _do_ with a degree yet,” Dot whines. “Or if I even picked the right school.”

“Hey, that's fine, nobody knows when they go in, not really,” he assures her. “And I'm pretty sure the credit transfer process is loads better nowadays than when I was your age, so that's fine too! Just get the general courses out of the way first and take what’s interesting and maybe you’ll find your calling somewhere along the way, whether it's something like astrophysics or neurobiology or, I guess, architectural engineering if you're feeling artsy? Protip though, sign up for English 101 first. Everyone needs it, everyone hates it, and not having it early on is gonna wall you in.”

“Cap, she’s allowed to do whatever she wants,” you say, giving him a hard look.

“I mean, of course she is. There are just choices that are more economically slash socially suitable than others for the amount of time and money you pour into college.”

Dot stares at Peter, something boiling just below the surface. “Okay… what about a degree in philosophy?”

“Dear god, get a degree in the goddamn FINE ARTS before you get a degree in _PHILOSOPHY,_ ” he roars. “You can't even DO anything with a degree like that except teach more people philosophy! At least the fine arts degree goes toward SOME kind of measurable skill, philosophy is the circlejerk degree for people who want to feel smart but won't apply themselves to anything actually useful, finding new ways to contort themselves around the same tired argument and gorging themselves on pot brownies. It's great if you want to be overqualified to flip hamburgers, it is NOT great if you, I don't know, don't want to be paying student loans until you're a hundred and twenty?!”

Dot looks pleased with herself over this reaction. A little bit.

“You have a reeeally strong opinion about this, huh,” Undyne comments, eye wide.

“Uh, yeah. And that opinion is strongly and squarely _fuck philosophy_.”

“Google Says It's Excellent Preparation For Law School.” Cody mumbles when the table goes quiet.

Peter throws a hand into the air. “Okay, fine, it’s good for ONE thing. Get a philosophy degree if you want. Become a lawyer, I don't care, you're not my kid.”

“coulda fooled me...”

“Haruhi! Other sort of adulty teenager in the house!” He shouts, ignoring Sans. “What are your college plans?”

“Oh. I'm pretty sure I'm going into aquatic engineering,” she says delicately. “I know the person whose lab I want to apply for from a national competition last year. They're super cool.”

Peter puts his hand down and nods his head. “That… is a solid answer. Wow. You really got your shit together!”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, this needs to end or else we’re not going to finish a game tonight or even this year. Stop grilling the kids Capra, everyone else, let's pair off into five teams and pick something to play!”

Mettaton ends up on Dot’s team for that night. It's the usual, raucous amount of fun with this family, but it takes her awhile to warm back up to it, and even then, something is on her mind. He worries.

As they all split off for the night to either sleep or watch TV (after Cody and Papyrus’s incredible comeback in a game of Munchkin), Mettaton pulls her aside.

“Little one… I hope he didn't upset you too much,” he whispers, moving to cup her cheek. “He cares, even when he's an opinionated fool.”

“He didn't upset me,” she says, batting his hand away, and Mettaton is a little surprised. Had he misread...?

She looks a little sorry for it, hesitating to turn away. “I'm just… tired,” she says. “Don't worry about it.”

He reaches to touch her shoulder, but thinks twice of it. “Dot…” he whispers. “I know the advice of adults is often… unwelcome, at your age--”

“I am _also_ an adult,” she bites.

“Well, yes,” he concedes. “Then, the advice of an older family member who has no business butting in?”

Dot chews her cheek, mulling it over. “Yeah, that works. Just say what you want to, Uncle Mett.”

“Sometimes, when you’re afraid of moving forward,” he begins, trying to word this carefully. “You must... fling yourself into the unknown. Take that chance when you’re unsure about the consequences. Change is frightening. To leave behind something, even what you used to be, even if it’s for the better… holds a certain quality to it. The familiar hell, versus a frightening paradise. But… and, certainly in this case… even if you change beyond recognition, even if you make what could be the wrong decisions… there will always be something here to moor you when you become too weary. And there is always, _always_ , a way forward. Even when it looks sideways, at the time.”

She shuffles around, looking to the side. “... Thanks,” she whispers. “I’ll uh… think about that, I guess.”

He watches as she ascends the stairwell, feeling secure that he said the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look, it's just me and you, here again at the end of the chapter, and i seem to have accidentally set up this beautiful candlelit dinner on accident this time.......... silly me..........
> 
> i guess we'll just have to enjoy each others company for the rest of the night, eating the highest quality frozen mozzarella sticks and drinking wine that is DEFINITELY not poisoned........ hahaha.
> 
> ha ha.
> 
> hem.
> 
> *sips wine*
> 
> ............ what do you mean you're supposed to cook frozen mozzarella sticks?


	4. Next Time, Remember To Take Your Phone OFF Silent, Too

“Oh no... I think I left my toolkit at home….” Napstablook sighs, looking over their few cases of luggage.

Mettaton drops another of his large black cases, glittering with rhinestones, next to them. “Oh, don't worry darling. I have a spare you can use,” he assures them, placing a hand on their shoulder and looking behind them.

“Peter!” He calls, and Peter looks up from the front door where he's struggling to lift the last inky black case over the threshold. Oh, darn, he hadn't meant to leave that one for Peter to carry out…

“Yeah?” Peter shouts, looking up and shielding his eyes from the sun.

“In the bathroom cupboard, second shelf in the very back, there is a small black case with my name on it. Could you grab it for me?”

Peter stops trying to lift the heavy case, and begins to gesture wildly at it. “Uh…?!”

Mettaton rolls his eyes. “I’ll carry that, please, go fetch my spare toolkit from the bathroom.”

Peter takes a moment to stare back, then shrugs and heads in, tapping his wrist. Right. They were already three minutes past when he had wanted to leave.

Mettaton walks up the front steps and grabs the handle of the abandoned case. He lifts, hears a small clank in his shoulder, and immediately lets go. Mind racing, he flexes and tests his shoulder. Nothing more seems to happen.

He holds his head in his hand. Was he hearing things…? No. He was certain he had heard a sound in his shoulder. It could not have been a fabrication of his imagination. But the case was well within his weight limits, even with a weak cable…

“Threep, you okay?” Peter asks, standing beside him with a black carrying case in his hand. Mettaton is quick to put a smile back on.

“Yes, just feeling a little reluctant to leave,” he lies smoothly and grabs his case with his other hand, carrying it to the car.

“So that's two white cases and a carryon for Napstablook, and five cases and two carryons for myself,” he tallies up, hoisting the case into the trunk of Peter’s car. Swiftly, he turns and takes the small toolkit from Peter, handing it to Napstablook.

“Here you are, darling. See? We’re doing just fine. This tour is off to a great start!”

“Yeah…. I guess… I am feeling a lot better about it? Now that it's happening… It doesn't feel so… overwhelming...” they say, tucking the kit into their carryon.

“Okay, everything is in the car, we can get going because we are kind of running behind here-- ooohhh waitwaitwait,” Peter says in a rush, and wraps his arm around Mettaton’s waist, pulling him in for a big kiss. A big, greedy kiss that must last almost a whole minute. He doesn't want to be let go, wants to keep kissing Peter’s lips and cheeks and his afternoon stubble and run his fingers through his thick, black hair because he knows he's going to miss it so much, so, so much...

“Uh…. Guys…….?” Napstablook whispers, probably afraid to interrupt the throes of passion. They break apart slowly, resting their foreheads together.

“Sorry. I didn't want to do that at the airport,” Peter whispers, and the implication is there. Paparazzi may find it difficult to navigate the airport drop-off nowadays, but everyone else has a camera too for… _stargazing_.

And Peter can't very well tell fans to fuck off.

Mettaton gives his forehead one last kiss. “I understand,” he whispers back, and turns to Napstablook. “I'm sorry about that. You must be anxious to get going!”

“Uh…… yeah,” they say, tucking a long strand of white hair behind their ear and looking off to the side. “Yeah…..”

“Well I think we can still make it through traffic of we leave right now so, let's climb in already, yeah???” Peter urges, closing the trunk and walking around to the driver’s seat.

“Yeah,” Mettaton echoes, and climbs into his seat as well.

 

\-----------

 

_“--reminds you not to leave your bags unattended. Do not accept bags whose contents you do not know--”_

“Okay, I found a cart, you two ready to load up?”

“Yes-- Oh, Peter your button, it's caught--”

“Oh no……… we don't have time…….. we're going to be late, Mettaton…….”

_“--to remind you that all magic is prohibited on the premises, and using magic may result in your removal from--”_

“We have plenty of time, Napstablook-- Peter hold _still_ \--”

“Trying!”

“--Got it! Help me load the cart!”

A bit of a crowd has gathered to their mayhem, trimmed only by the security that keeps people from parking in the drop-off zone. Fame can be both a boon and a curse, one more than the other depending on how well you manage yourself.

They finish loading the cart much faster than it took to pack the car itself, and Mettaton ushers Napstablook forward. “ _Go_ ,” he urges, “I’ll be right behind you, check in your luggage and get to the gate!”

“But……”

“ _Go!_ ”

Napstablook makes headway through the river of people, and Mettaton turns to Peter.

“Well, this is it,” Mettaton whispers, hand on the cart handle, hesitating. He has a perfect memory, but he wants to look at those soft blue eyes a little longer.

“Yep,” Peter agrees. He rubs his neck a little bit, looking past Mettaton.

“... Until Christmas,” Mettaton says.

“Yep.”

He looks off to the side, then behind him. Some people off in the distance are pointing them out to their friends, waiting to be picked up, but no one is approaching.

It's as close to privacy in public as he can get.

He turns to Peter. “Could we…?”

Peter does a cursory check around them as well. “No kissing,” he says, opening his arms.

Mettaton embraces him firmly, burying his face against the collar of his suit and taking in the smell of clean laundry, of his aftershave (clovish and musky), of his own, warm scent that reminded him of nickel and lilac…

Peter holds him just as firmly.

“Call me when you land?” He whispers into Mettaton’s ear.

“I can try, but, you have my tracking number--”

“Haha, I'm going to forget to use that.”

“It will be terribly early in the morning…”

“Don't care.”

Mettaton sighs and sneaks a kiss onto his lapel. “I love you.”

“I love you too. But you need to get going,” he says, pulling away. Mettaton suspects that tardiness isn’t the only thing on his mind, and that he has reached his public affection limit as well.

“Yes. Then, I’ll call,” Mettaton affirms, giving him a small wave as he grabs the cart once again, and leaves Peter in the echoing, cement cavern of travellers.

He rushes the cart to the check in, as fast as possible, pulling up his ticket on his phone as he does.

“Hello, welcome to Providence International Airpor-- oh, um, Airport! Oh wow,” the attendant announces, looking up from her console, looking a little starstruck. Mettaton smiles.

“Don't worry, dear thing. I know you're not supposed to treat me any different, but I don't mind the attention. I do need to hurry, however.”

“Oh yeah, uh, sure! Um, mister, uh…?”

“Just Mettaton is fine,” he says, already grabbing the handle of a case.

“Mettaton,” the attendant repeats fondly. “You here to check your bags?”

“Yes, I apologize, I have so many--”

“Oh it's nothing at all! Just place the first one on the scale and we'll get you through quick as a slip!”

“Thank you,” he says, thankful that she's getting right to business. They weigh the bags, one after another, and she tallies it all up, and he’s beginning to feel very impatient, watching the clock. He needs to make it to the gate in 14 minutes, and it would take ten just to walk there…

“So you have a few overweight fees--”

“Yes, yes, that’s expected,” he says, pulling out his card.

“The first two bags are free--”

“I know, darling, I'm a very frequent flyer,” he assures her, looking again at the clock.

“Uh, um, okay, so then that's four bags--”

“Yes,” he says, handing her his card. He has twelve minutes left.

_“Calling M.T. to gate E7, please check-in. Again, that is M.T. to gate E7--”_

“All set!! Enjoy your flight!” she says, and he waves at her, slinging his carryons over his shoulder, ready to speedwalk like he never has before, the click of his heels shatteringly loud against the laminate.

He thanks every god he's ever heard of that TSA knows him so well here they practically wave him right through. It's really more of a formality, compared to the first time he flew.

(He had been swabbed down for explosives for nearly two hours. His very existence had been the turning point for a change in security protocol regarding persons of metallic composition, and additionally prosthesis at large.)

Other than that, he doesn't have time for the VIP treatment. Nobody is approaching him, either, though he's sure some of these families will have stories to tell on their arrival of the time they saw Mettaton storming his way through Providence International airport, tall and elegant and murder on his mind if he missed this flight--

Gate E7.

He pulls out his phone for the attendant to scan.

“M.T.?” He asks, and Mettaton smiles.

“Yes, I hope I didn't keep you waiting.”

“Not at all, sir! We still have a few minutes left to board. Hop right in and get to your seat, and thank you for flying _Air Real!_ ”

He walks through the gate and onto the plane, and within moments, settles into his seat next to Napstablook in first class, somehow exhausted from a most hectic half-hour.

“I was starting to think you would miss the flight…….. “ Napstablook leans in to whisper, so obviously relieved.

Mettaton takes their hand and leans his head against theirs. “I'm here now.”

 

\-----------

 

Capra gets home pretty late.

He swung by the office to pick up work, but just ended up staying and doing it instead, ordering take-out for himself and Dale. Dale, his beloved secretary, while he didn’t hide guns in his closet, was still kind of the worst for making him pick up the food. It was fine, though. He took a chicken tender tax for it.

And then he’d gotten bored right around an hour ago because even though Threep had inflight wi-fi, apparently he still needed to shut off for a few hours and get all prepared for when the flight landed, and there was only so much he could handle of just a solid day of paperwork.

So, anyway. He leaves work pretty early.

When he gets home and the lights are still on, it's not out of the ordinary.

When he parks his car in the garage and he hears voices, it’s… unusual.

When he opens the door and dumps his keys in the mudroom plate, and walks in to see a goddamn _war council?_

Well, he thought they stopped doing that kind of thing after, like, Dennis!

“Uh, hey,” he greets skillfully, shrugging off his jacket.

“hey. check your phone.”

He pulls it out.

 **_8 missed calls  
_ ** **_2 messages_ **

He looks back up. “Sorry. Must’ve had it on silent. What did you need?”

Undyne stands on her toes, looking past him. “… You came back home alone?”

“Uh, yeah. My passengers are like, nine hours out on a thirteen hour flight. I wasn't gonna come home with Threep, I'm not _that_ clingy--”

“D-dot didn't go with you?” Alphys interjects, wringing her hands.

“... No,” he answers, brow furrowing as he suddenly understands where this is going.

“shit.”

Very definitely where it's going.  
  
“Dot’s Missing,” Cody confirms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *swirls my glass of wine*
> 
> you know, my dear, i've really been struggling to get into these characters heads, but i think you'll agree with me that i _nailed_ dot's dialogue in this chapter!
> 
> feels good to get to the point i wanted to get to in the very first chapter
> 
> now this story can actually begin
> 
> also hey, did you see that epilogue TotalSkeletonTrash posted? cause guess what royally fucked my entire plot. there goes my whole "Ghost Is Secretly An Ageless Shapeshifter Bent On World Domination" arc!
> 
> it's cool though. that's what fanfic is, right? constantly transforming?
> 
> also... husbands.


	5. Next Time, Leave A Note

“And you guys are sure she’s missing?” Capra asks, taking a spot at the war table. “She's what, eighteen? I don't know about you guys, but those are some prime rebellion years for the rest of the sentient beings on the planet.”

“Yes, we're sure,” you say, scanning through your phone, pressing your knuckles to your lips.

“she hasn't answered any calls or texts cap, and as far as any of us know she didn't go anywhere with friends… already contacted a few of them she goes out with on the regular, and they haven't heard nothin.”

“What about the security tapes from today?” He asks, looking at Alphys.

“Th-they didn't show anything. S-so either, uh… you know, sh-she doesn't want to be found, or uh, she's still in the h-house, or uh… w-w-whoever took her knows th-the blind spots,” she says.

“Already checked the whole house. Only sign of a green is me,” Undyne whispers gravely. “She either left or was taken.”

“and she'd tell me if she was leavin. which leaves...” Sans grips the edge of the table tightly.

“Hey, cut that out.” Capra claps his hand on Sans’s shoulder. He wants to run out the door and look for Dot himself, see if they could have possibly missed anything, and… god, this really wasn't like Dot, and teenage rebellion was one thing, sure, but she didn't have anything here to rebel against, not really! Going out to a party? Alright, have fun, be safe, don't mix your alcohols, drink plenty of water, and don't drive home drunk, just give him a call! He was good at keeping that a secret from Sans!

And she was a good kid, usually the one to cart  _ her _ friends home, so he was beginning to think she didn't have it in her, which makes the kidnapping thing seem more and more likely the more he thinks about it. Like, she's high up on the radar of the public eye, and she's connected to someone with money, lots of money, who had hit a stride overturning the old power grid in most of the country and parts of Europe and China...

But he can't, he can't be the one to make that conclusion, to frantically run out that door, because right now you and Sans are making that conclusion and it's tearing you apart with worry, and the minute he gives in is the minute it becomes the only possibility. He takes a breath and centers himself. “She's probably out at a bar with a fake ID and pretending to be someone she's not, or getting railed by someone she picked up off Tinder in a motel with crunchy pillows. Turned her phone on silent and forgot to turn it back on.”

You've got your lip lifted at him. “Can you  _ not _ talk about my daughter like that?”

“What, that she might be out having sex with a perfect stranger?” He cups his hands around his mouth. “Newsflash, _____, your baby girl is a grown-ass adult now, and one that is  _ sexually active!  _ It happens! Kids grow older and they leave the nest, explore themselves and who they are and who they want to BE outside of the sight and judgement of their parents!”

“Yeah-- no, I get that, I get it Cap, and you're not some parenting genius for knowing that,” you say, gripping your head. “But she hasn't contacted us. She's missing. And you don't need to say ‘getting railed’.”

“The Police Department’s Site Says You Should Report Someone Who’s Missing As Soon As You Know,” Cody quietly adds, ever the font of quickly retrieved knowledge.

Capra throws a hand in the air. “Well then I guess you guys should file one of those, and the consequence of her actions will be police barging in on her bare ass in The Crunchy Pillow Motel and getting flicked in the eye with a condom-- Sorry, Cody. You probably didn’t want to hear that.”

“right. and if she was actually kidnapped, they'll save her life,” Sans bites.

“If she was actually kidnapped  _ we would have a ransom letter already,” _ Capra reasons.

Sans ignores him and begins opening a door to… what looks like downtown. “babe, can you file that report? i’m gonna hit up the bars and see if i can't find her.”

“Can do,” you say, pecking his cheekbone with a kiss. “Be safe, alright?”

“Wait, I'm coming too,” Undyne growls, her stool scraping against the hardwood. “More eyes, at least.”

She pauses at the door and looks pointedly at Capra, that sharp yellow eye boring into him with such intensity, that she was his friend and she wasn't going to let him make an ass of himself.

He sighs, rubbing his neck. “I guess I'll go too. Make good on my assumption and check out the motels too. But, like, guys, I'm still not that good at seeing souls…” He complains, all the way through the doorway, and onto the moderately busy streets of downtown Ebott’s night life, drenched in neon and regurgitated alcohol.   
  


\---------   
  


_ “Goooood morning passengers, this is your captain speaking, we’ll be arriving at our destination here in about 30 minutes, please put away all devices and prepare for landing. The attendants will come down the aisles one last time here in a few moments to collect any trash you may have. Expect a little bit of turbulence on the way down, we are going to hit a few of those updrafts. Local time is 3:18AM, the weather forecast is clear skies, we hope you enjoy your stay for however long you're here, and for locals, would like to welcome you home.” _

The whole plane flickers to life, strip lights turning on and all the passengers bustling as they pack up the signs of 13 hours of cramped leisure.

Mettaton comes to life with them, stretching out artificial muscle and blinking away the cozy haze of the early morning. An attendant has already taken his plastic wine cup away, he notes, when he's passed by without so much as a glance.

It's then he notices the admirer across the aisle, staring at his bicep with wild enamour.

He smiles. The shy ones are always the most fun to play with. He flexes the muscle, pushing the intricate strands together, and watches as the admirer’s throat bobs, eyes fluttering up to meet his.

“Good morning,” Mettaton greets coolly.

“U-uh. Um. Hi,” the admirer greets back, playing with the cuff of a department store suit and looking away.

Oh, very shy. His face is blooming like a summer rose. 

“And what might your name be?” Mettaton inquires, as the seat belt lights turn on with a small  _ bong. _

“It’s uh. It's Travis. Langer. Uh. Doctor Travis Langer, I um, work for a company-- you're Metatron? No, sorry, Mettaton, Metatron is a biblical thing--” The young admirer rambles, and goodness, he can't be more than a dozen years older than Dot. Mettaton chuckles.

“Yes, I am  _ the  _ Mettaton. It's a pleasure to meet you, Travis. I do apologize, I've spent this whole flight brooding in my corner that I didn't even think to greet my neighbors. You're a fan?”

“I mean, I am now! Haha, wow. You're so… lifelike? I've only seen you whenever you pop up on TV sometimes, but I'm not much of a daytime television watcher, and I guess there was always a little bit of me that didn't believe you were real? This is uh. A bit like meeting Santa. You're literally one of the only androids that has ever been made that has been seamlessly integrated into our society, never mind the grasp on language that you've had that we’re still trying to replicate in our models...”

Mettaton’s smile doesn't waver, even as he begins to grow uneasy. “You're a robotics student, then.”

The plane shakes as they hit some turbulence.

“Well I'm not a student anymore, but yes, I did study robotics. And especially artificial intelligence. That's  _ amazing _ that you just made that deduction with so little information!” Travis says, looking as if he could begin to drool at a moment’s notice.

Looking as if he weren't seeing Mettaton, but a buffet of knowledge and intrigue. And Mettaton had invited him in.

Mettaton continues to smile serenely.

“Yes, I am excellent at reading someone’s character.” He wishes it were more true.

“Wow, I guess you would need to be, huh? Your expressions are incredible, too, they don't get that uncanny valley look to them at all… You're monster-make, right? Who made you?” Travis asks.

“Doctor Alphys designed and fabricated most of my interior and sub-exterior plating. I designed the rest, and all of the exterior plating I use.”

“Wait, you designed yourself? How does that work?”

“The same way it works with you, I'd imagine. Did you get that suit at Sears or did your mother have to drag you by the ear into the store?”

They hit more turbulence. Someone in economy hurls into a paper bag.

Travis laughs. “I guess you have a point. What about your processors, then? Do you have separate ones for each limb? How do you replicate emotion, or make expressions? That takes so much processing power, but you're so incredibly  _ lifelike! _ ”

Mettaton grits his teeth as the plane finally hits the runway.

“I am  _ living,”  _ he says, as polite as he can. “And my processors are, unfortunately,  _ classified information _ .”

“Ah… I figured.”

_ Then why did you ask, _ Mettaton thinks to himself, his mood rightly soured. He wants the plane to stop already, so he can hear Peter’s voice again. He can imagine it, even without peering into one of his drives. Low and croaky with sleep, his guards completely down, that slow chuckle when he's tired but happy…

The plane comes to a stop, and everyone begins to take their seat belts off and rush out.

“Well, it was really nice to meet you,” Travis says warily, combing fingers into his brown mop of hair.

“Likewise,” Mettaton says simply, giving him a small wave.

As soon as he has his back turned, backpack slung over his shoulder, Mettaton turns to Napstablook, still limp against the window.

“Bloo,” he whispers. “It's time to get going, darling.”

“..... Is…… everyone else…. gone……?” Napstablook whispers back, straightening up.

“No, but we need to grab our luggage. We can't keep our taxi waiting all morning.”

He helps them out of the soft plush of the airplane recliner, and they walk, hand in hand, down the terminal. Heads turn, fingers are pointed as people become excited by his very presence, even more gladly feign vapors when he blows them a kiss, and one delighted child blows  _ him _ a kiss, which Napstablook has to catch him for as he swoons with such exaggeration.

It takes them approximately seven more minutes to reach their luggage than it probably should have.

“Here…. I can watch for our luggage if you want to call Peter……?” Napstablook offers, already grabbing a trolley.

“Oh that would be fantastic, thank you darling.” He turns away, pulling out his phone and finding a good wall to lean on for some privacy. It hardly takes any time at all to call him, though he does linger on the contact picture.

It rings once.

It rings twice.

“Threep!! Hey! You uh, landed already?”

“Already? Peter, it's two in the morning where you are--  _ why do you sound out of breath?” _ He asks, concerned. This is not the voice of a man that had been sleeping!

“Dot’s missing.”

“... What?” He asks, bewildered.

“Dot’s-- no one’s seen or heard from her all day. Like, at all. She's not picking up her phone, or texting back, and we've been checking out all the goddamn bars and hotels in town trying to see if she's there but we haven't found anything yet, and fuck, Threep, don't tell Sans but I'm actually starting to get really worried, like REALLY worried, like what if she got picked up by the fucking Russian mafia and she's in Ukraine by now being auctioned off--”

“Peter, please, I understand your concern, but I doubt that's what happened,” he sighs, letting his eyes wander around the terminal, watching the conveyor belts rotate teal zebra print luggage around like appetizers at a sushi bar. 

A thought occurs to him.

“Have you checked Delfin’s house?”

“Delfin?  _ The paparazzo?” _

“The boy is fairly sweet on our dear little Dot, I would not be surprised to find her in his bed if she's truly nowhere else to be found,” Mettaton explains.

“I mean… No, we haven't, but I am getting desperate and Sans is losing his goddamn mind...”

He looks over at Napstablook as Peter considers his words. A carry-on, two white cases, and five black cases. Perfect. They have all of their luggage, ready to go.

… So then why was Napstablook grabbing a sixth black rhinestone case from the conveyors, one that was unmistakably his?

He blinks, and takes a second look. A  _ real _ look.

The cases are all perfectly how he left them in the care of the airline. Not a stone or tag out of place.

Except one of them has a warm green soul, the color of new growth and soft grass. A soul that he has  _ certainly _ seen before. A soul that his husband has been spending all night frantically looking for.

“I found her,” Mettaton says, smiling tightly.

“What? You're going to really go all in on this Delfin thing? Those are some real balls, Threep--”

“No-- Forget Delfin. She's with  _ me _ , Peter--”

“Wait, WHAT--”

“-- I’ll call you back at the hotel,” Mettaton interrupts. “Please get Sans back home.”

He ends the call right there before Peter can drag out the response any longer. Readjusting the bag slung over his shoulder, he trots over to Napstablook and the trolley, a dozen lines already reeling in his head.

She was in  _ such  _ trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha this conversation is going to a great way to get some feel goods in this story
> 
> *writes it*
> 
> ................. well that turned out to be a total downer


	6. Next Time, Ask Nicely

He's about three steps out of the elevator into his room when he sets down the errant case on the couch and stares at it, hip cocked and arms folded. Napstablook waves off the bellhop, and then with a hesitant look at Mettaton, they too make themselves scarce.

After all, it was never fun to have to watch someone play parent.

“Little one, how long did you intend for this charade to last?” He asks, tapping a finger impatiently on his arm. “Was I to find you earlier and this is a prank gone awry, or were you going to sneak your way all across the world posing as my luggage?”

The case doesn't do a thing.

“You can't possibly be sleeping right now. And I would like an answer.”

He thinks he sees the soul tremble. But still, it's silent.

“Well then, if you won't talk to me,” he says, pulling out his phone, “I'm sure your mother would like an explanation.”

“No! Wait, wait!” the case gasps, an unzipped pouch moving not unlike a mouth. “Don't call her!”

He lifts his lip humorlessly. “Then, an explanation for me? And, please. With a face I can talk to. ‘Living Luggage’ is not a look that… suits you.”

There's a groan and a flash, and in front of him sits a disgruntled and young robot, sticking her tongue out at him. The resemblance is uncanny. The green hair her own. The slouching? Undignified and taunting, childish, done explicitly to annoy him.

He covers his eyes with a hand and takes a second to collect himself. “One of _your_ appearances, please. I will not be mocked,” he says, bridling his anger.

Another flash, and he's standing in front of a young skeleton who has at least a modicum of shame to have put her tongue back in her mouth and fixed her posture. Even if she's avoiding his gaze and looking off to the side.

He sighs, and sits down delicately on the glass coffee table, throwing one knee over the other. Then, he waits. A child like Dot, so similar to yourself and Peter, could never stand silence. She is trapped under his expectant gaze, and he has patience and time. She would talk, eventually. Already he can see her struggle.

“... I dunno,” she finally decides, slumping in her seat.

“Sorry, you _don't know?”_ He says, barely asking. “You stowed away and broke several international laws, threatening my reputation and the livelihoods of, god, dozens of people, because _you don't know?”_

“No! I mean, yes! I mean-- _I don't know!”_

Mettaton’s eyebrows raise.

Dot hesitates, looking off to the side after the outburst. There's a moment that Mettaton fears he's been too harsh, has overstepped his bounds as someone who is her family but certainly not her parent, but then she stands up and paces. “It's just-- I couldn't stand it, you know? Mom and Dad are so excited for me to go to college, and uncle Pete’s been on my case about it since FOREVER, but like… I don't know, the more I thought about it, and the closer it got, the more I didn't want to have anything to do with it! And you know my mom would be fine with it, like oh, sweetie, all you had to do was say something, and she'd be all supportive of me just taking a year off before college but she'd TOTALLY do those sad little glances that she does, like when I dropped out of that dance class and the softball team and stopped going to scouts? Like-- you know, like she's trying really hard to understand and let me do my own thing, but she thinks I'm making a mistake anyway!”

He rests his head in his hand, listening intently. She's clearly had some time to reflect on her actions as a luggage case, at least.

“And then I started thinking about what you said, and seeing you pack, and I was like… damn! I wish I could go! Just not have any attachments or think about my future for awhile. Where I wouldn't have to be Dot, daughter of That Sans, or Capra’s goddaughter, or people being all like, oh, you’re the kid of the lady with the skarm! I could just… be. So I started thinking about what you said, throwing yourself into the unknown or whatever and embracing change?”

“Oh my. So... this is because of me, then?” He sighs. Oh, Dot! He hadn't meant _this_ when he said those things the other day. Granted, she had heard what she needed to hear, and took the action that made the most sense to her, which is about the best thing you could hope for when giving someone advice…

She winces. “No! I mean, kind of? It was a suuuper impulsive decision. I barely had time to get out the window and into the trunk before you guys left. Like, I think wars have been started with more forethought.”

“Oh, certainly most of them,” Mettaton replies. “War is not an impulsive thing. But, little one… next time?”

“Don't sneak onto planes?” She rolls her eyes and sinks back into the cushions.

“Er… Well, yes,” he confirms with a bit of a thoughtful nod. “But more importantly… the next time you need a break from home, _tell me_. Goodness, do you know how often I've wanted to steal you away to see the world with me? Your mother would never let me! As if learning about volcanoes in a cramped room was somehow more enriching than seeing one in the flesh. This is a dream come true for me!”

“I’m pretty sure she was more concerned about having us so close to lava-- wait, you're not mad at me?”

“Oh, I am. You've put a rather sizeable wrench in my plans for this morning,” he says, pulling out his phone and scrolling through the contacts. J, j, j, j…

“But you're not… sending me home?” Dot squints at him as he brings the phone up to his ear, listening to the dial tone.

“After hearing about what drove you to such drastic measures? I would have to be _heartless_. And, well. Again. I’ve dreamed of this for a time and a half, at least. Did you bring your passport?” He asks curtly.

“Yeah, uh, I grabbed my passport at least-- I don't have clothes or like, anything else though? I didn't exactly count on getting this far, holy shit--”

“Clothes are not an issue--” He cuts himself off as the call connects, a gravelly _“Hellooooo mister staaar”_ on the other end.

“Yes, yes, it is I,” he chuckles pleasantly, swapping his tone and persona as easily as he could take off a mask. “And a good morning to my favorite gem! How was your flight, darling? Did they treat you well?”

 _“Mmmm like a queeen.”_ The voice stops and cackles. _“Nooo but really. It was faaabulous. That first class upgrade really swung in at the right time. Those seats are sooo lush, and honey they keep the wine flowing like they're fucking Bacchus or somethin. Greek guy, the wine one, had a bunch of centaurs in that Disney thing-- point iiis, I've never been so comfortable, Starboy. Except maybe that time I got to sit on Ryan Reynolds’ lap--”_

There's another pause as she cackles again.

Mettaton looks up to see Dot eyeing him meaningfully, quirking a browbone. He lifts a finger to his lips, and she collapses back into the couch, grabbing a throw pillow and playing with the fringe.

_“What's good with you? You just checking in on ol’ Jules? We still got hours to go before setup, you gotta relaaax and unwind those tight cords of yours. Stress isn't good for nobody, not even metal and magic motherfuckers like you-- oh, shit, that's a kid-- Sorry! Sorry…”_

He shakes his head. “Jules. I'm afraid this isn't just a friendly chat. I need you to do me a favor. It's… urgent.”

 _“Anything for you, St_ _arbooooy. You know you've been good to me. Buuut I can't get clearance for fireworks, it isn't in our budget and the fire marshall or whatever they're called down here has a giant stick up their ass about it and I'm not about to try and pull it out--”_

“I need an additional visa. For every stop on the tour.” He braces himself for the response, standing up and walking to the window.

_“...You're fucking with me.”_

“I'm not.”

The phone pops and crackles with a loud groan.

_“Whyyyy. Mettaton, this shit takes mooonths to get together--”_

“I know, I'm so sorry darling. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary.”

_“Who the fuck is it for??”_

“My niece.”

_“No fuckin’ way, I've got extra work cause you wanted to pull some family vacation shit?”_

“That isn't... exactly what happened. I'll explain later, over drinks?”

_“Uggghhhh. Fine. E-mail me her paperwork, I'll get it taken care of-- no guarantees on having a visa for any of our performances down here, though. You want her as a performer or tech?”_

He glances back at Dot, staring at him with wide sockets, the lights in her eyes bright.

“... Tech would be the best choice. I think she wants to be away from family as much as possible.”

_“Got it. I'll start putting it in. And Mettaton?”_

“Yes, darling? Oh, wait, no. Don't tell me. Is it that you're so glad to have met me and that you look forward to working with me for the next year?”

_“Nooo, it's ‘fuck you for dragging me from whatever gutter you found me in and making me a respectable person with a job’. You better be getting me a whole bottle. And I'm not sharing.”_

The call ends with a small melodic boop. Running his fingers through his hair, he smiles, relief filling his heart to the brim. Already, one problem was being solved.

“Hoooly shit, oh my… fuck! Is this happening? Is this really happening?!” Dot exclaims, jumping to her feet.

“Oh yes. This is very much indeed _happening_ ,” he laughs, scrolling through his contacts again, leaning against the window.

“Oh my god… being on tour! Seeing the world! Meeting people from all kinds of places, eating weird food-- where are we right now?” she asks, rushing to the window, taking in the spectacular view of the ocean, dimly glittering with lights from across the bay. The morning would bring rich greens from the hills, and cloudy mists that hug onto the treeline before the sun burns them away, but the night, just before the dawn… It felt like they were on top of the world. In it, but not of it.

Not all of the rooms he had booked were as incredible as this. But it was good to start things off with a _bang._

“Rio, little one. A city with a rich history and culture, and a people that are vivacious. The birthplace of bossa nova, a unique sound rooted in the optimism of its artists, made into the identity of Rio the world round long after its popularity. There's a strong lineage of using music to rebel, here. It's not something Napstablook or I could ever hope to capture in our work. It would… come across as a flimsy, depthless copy, I think. It's not our history. But it's a history I admire, if only because Napstablook’s love for it is so... infectious,” he muses, soft in his tone as he looks out over the city lights.

“... Nice?” Dot says, though it sounds more like a question, a call for an answer to ‘what does this have to do with me?’. It's clear to him that, as young as she is, she's still a little more concerned with the _now_. Not how they got here, but where they are. He can't blame her. It is an easy thing to do, to concern yourself with how something fit into your self-portraiture, the tapestry of your life, and a much harder thing to be actively interested in something so far outside of yourself. How could he expect the same reverence from her when he himself had spent decades practicing, and still found himself thinking only of his own place at times?

He shakes his head.

“You need to call your mother. No texting, she deserves to hear your voice. They were _very_ worried about you, you know.”

She grimaces, looking down at her phone. “Yeeeaaah, I kinda noticed. This is like, a lot a lot _a lot_ of messages… is there wi-fi here? Or like, are you a hotspot? I don't want to land a long distance charge.”

He levels his gaze at her, starting a call and holding the phone to his ear. “No, I'm not. Wi-fi capabilities on my person is a rather sizeable compromise to my security. It's why I carry a phone.”

“Chill, dude, it was just a joke…” she mumbles, walking away to the couch, messing with her own phone, perhaps a little apprehensive about any wrath she may have incurred from her disappearance. He has half a moment to feel sorry for her before his call connects.

“--no, hold on, let me talk to him-- Okay, Threep, you want to explain what’s going on? You have Dot?? ” Peter asks, a clamor of voices in the background.

“Yes, I have her right here. She's safe--”

“Oh, thank god--she's safe, with him-- no I don’t-- GODDAMN let me talk to him and I'll tell you! Here-- wanna put this on speaker so we can all talk?”

“--hy he couldna --**-**--d us, i’m gon--***--**-*--emble that shi--**-*-s--” He can hear Sans croak, and he lifts his lip. A tired, irate Sans in the early morning is not how he wants to start his day.

“I'd prefer to just talk to you. Privately. Dot should be calling them herself at any moment.”

“Oh! Okay. Cool, yeah, hold on-- He wants to talk to me alone bud-- yeah, I know-- she should be calling you, he said-- yeah, see, your phone is going off, get off my ass! Jesus!”

Mettaton glances over to the couch, Dot curled up around the throw pillow, quietly mumbling into her phone. She would want privacy, he thinks, or maybe it's that he wants privacy, as he slinks away into the bedroom and slides the door shut, leaving Dot to herself.

He falls onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as he waits for Peter to no doubt do the same and seclude himself. Napstablook’s body lies lifeless in a corner chair, the bright white strands of hair tucked between their shoulder and their chin, and their arms wrapped stiffly around their knees. Evacuated. Possibly gone to explore the city alone and unseen, without a body.

“Hey, still there?” Peter asks, his voice low and gravelly, exhaustion apparent as his guards and persona fall away to reveal the man beneath. No, that's not right-- they do not mask who he is, and not having them does not make him smaller. It's as though being alone allows him to fill all of the spaces of himself, like a bird able to stretch its wings, or a dam being released, the water able to run where it's naturally taken after having to be just one part of itself for so long--

“Threep?” Peter asks again, and Mettaton shakes his head, closing his eyes.

“Sorry, I was preoccupied. I'm here. And you've had an eventful night, it seems?”

“Uh. Haha. Yeah, actually. I’m a little beat. Sprinting up and down the street all night takes a whole hell of a lot out of you, turns out. And downtown is huge now! They took out the bowling alley and are putting in some kind of shopping center. Looks like it might be pretty high end? Bad news is that all the mom and pop places are gonna get shoved out, buuut... Hey, wait. How _did_ she end up with you? Nevermind TSA, they're bullshit, nothing gets past _you._ ”

Mettaton’s voice box crackles uncomfortably as he weighs whether or not he should admit the truth to Peter. “She... shifted into a copy of my luggage. I'm not sure when, I may go through my recordings again… She left through her window, however. She told me that.”

“And Alphys said the security tapes didn't show anything, but she didn't know when or where to look, and now we have a timeframe cause if she's with you… Hey. Heeey. Wanna take bets on how she got out to the car unseen?”

“Bird,” Mettaton suggests. “Or a snake. Something that wouldn't catch Alphys’s eye. She could blend easily into the stonework.”

“Ooooh, nice guess. However, consider the following: blending into the stonework as an actual, living rock. Nobody would be able to tell the difference! Like, is that a rock shaped like a heart, or a rock shaped like a dick? Oh wait, it's gone now, guess we'll never know! It would be so gooood.”

“Mmm. She would blend in easily. The stone used on the exterior of the house seems to be mostly schist.”

“Haha, yeah. My money’s on her pulling some Reaper shit, though,” Peter barrels forward, and Mettaton has to remind himself that he's not being ignored, that the comment wasn't too much of a stretch, but that Peter is tired, and tired people are very much unaware. “Compressing her size into a bird-sized-bird takes a lot of magic. Spreading out her molecules like a train of toddlers on a rope and trickling out of the window…? Way more economical in re magic consumption. I think I suggested it once. Fuck, I hope she did that!”

Mettaton chuckles. “It seems to me you just want to have any small part in this this great escape. Feeling a bit envious?”

“No way, I can escape work any time I want. Like, I don't really get the whole running away thing, considering nothing was really keeping her here, but… If that's what she needed, more power to her!”

“I find myself agreeing with you. She’s… lost, I think. Scared of being lost… no, that can't be right. She's such an adventurous girl…”

Mettaton furrows his brow as he struggles to parse what his niece had said.

“She doesn't know how she can forge her own path in the giant meat grinder that’s the American University system,” Peter supplies after the pause grows too long. “It's scary and the support at home made her feel trapped so she did what she does best and got the fuck out and back into her comfort zone. Which is, apparently, in Brazil. With you.”

“... Ah,” Mettaton replies simply, his face feeling a little hot. Usually he's the one doing these analyses. “Yes, that does sound more like what she was telling me.”

Peter grunts, but doesn't say anything more about it. They sit in a silence that Mettaton struggles to reign back in as comfortable until Peter, blessedly, breaks it. “So… what's the plan? Is she coming back home or are you keeping her?”

“Keeping her. I've already got some plans going to make it… more legal. For her to be working with me, anyway.”

“Gotcha. You excited?”

Mettaton can't help the small swell in his chest, nor the smile that weeds its way onto his face. “Yes. I am. I know I don't often bring my work home with me, so this should be an… interesting experience for her, I would hope. Of course she's seen me perform-- live, even. But the work that goes into these productions, and one certainly as large as this…! Oh, I work with so many skilled people, Peter. I cannot wait for her to meet them. It's one thing to be a dazzled audience member, given a night to never forget… but the favored few that brings that starlit dream to reality, shining and silver… that satisfaction and camaraderie is also so very, very beautiful, wouldn't you agree?”

“... Yeah,” Peter says after a moment, sleepy and pleased. “Yeah, I do.”

Mettaton laughs, low and relaxed, as he rolls onto his side to look out the window. “Peter, darling… I love you so very much. But you sound like you're falling asleep.”

“I’m not,” he says stubbornly.

“Well, I must get going either way. I have a few errands to run now and… approximately three hours to finish them in.”

“Better end this call then. You know, for your sake.”

“Yes. My sake, certainly, is the only reason. You're nothing if not a giving and supportive husband. And… I'm glad that I found you.”

“... You too,” Peter mumbles after a moment. “Ggggonna pass out now though. Love ya.”

“I love you, too. Sleep well.”

He wanders out from the bedroom minutes later, the patting of his heels soft and muffled against the high pile for the carpet. He's not sure what he was expecting when he leans over the couch, but he feels such a warmth wash through his chest when he sees Dot curled around her phone, asleep already. The chat with her parents must not have lasted very long.

Delicately, he runs the silicone grooves of his fingers against the side of her skull, soothing even as she stirs in her sleep.

“Dot,” he prompts, quietly. “You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here on the couch. Even more, you shouldn't sleep in your shoes. I've heard it's very painful to walk after doing so.”

Dot moans, but otherwise stays perfectly still. He sighs.

“Please. I'm not going to be using the bed. Make yourself comfortable, and I'll return in a few hours.”

He turns to leave right then, but thinks better of it, glancing back at her. At this age, she values all of the sleep she can get. It was unlikely she'd move.

He grabs one of the extra sheets from the closet and tucks it to her chin before climbing into the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good news
> 
> midterms are over
> 
> fuck yea


	7. Next Time, Take Your Shoes Off Before Falling Asleep, Seriously, Real Life Advice Right Here In The Chapter Title

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can do it from the front  
> i can do it from the back  
> im comin at u live like a literary flapjack
> 
> midterms are over but now i got crunch time until finals. woops
> 
> also im very bad at this formatting thing sorry about those emails

She's curled up on the couch when she finally stirs. Last thing she remembers is… Dad, telling her to get some sleep, to stay safe, and maybe a little bit of a grumble about listening to Mettaton at your request in the background.

And now the sun was up, too bright, so bright she thinks it might, like, be trying to kill her? Genuinely. Her mouth feels fuzzy, her jacket cold and musky with that awful sleep stink. Even the couch cushions are totally askew, her hip twisted into the gap, tangled with a bedsheet she doesn't remember grabbing--

“Oh good! You're awake!” Uncle Mettaton pretty much shouts as he exits the elevator, and usually the metallic tone to his speaking voice doesn't  _ hurt, _ but right now? It feels like someone's sharpening a knife in her brainzone. Fuck. “I was apprehensive of the idea that I would have to try and wake you. You can be quite frightening in the morning. Like a dragon that hoards sleep instead of riches, if you would imagine.”

“Uh, gee, thanks. That's super flattering,” she responds, eyeing the bags in his arms that he sets on the table. “... What're those?”

“Supplies.” Mettaton peels away some tissue paper from a small black box and looks down at her, grinning. “Your passport, please.”

She rolls her eyes. Could he not do the vague thing for like, ten minutes? Or at least wait until after she wasn't still kind of asleep?

Whatever. She slips her passport out of her pocket and lays her head back, covering her eyes with her arm. Mettaton takes it from her hand, gentle and precise. Like it was being filmed, artsy and choreographed.

This was already feeling like a mistake, and she had past-Dot’s impulsive ass decisions to blame for it. Stuck in the middle of Rio with Uncle Mettaton, which okay, isn’t that bad, but she was awake earlier than she had any right to be and she felt sweaty and  _ gross _ … And still didn't know what she was doing. She could probably charisma her way through exploring the streets, right?

She looks at Mettaton, hunched over the coffee table with the black box beside him-- a pad of ink? And their two passports in front of him, along with like, a BUNCH of other stuff, carefully applying the ink to her passport.

“There are a few pieces of clothing in the fuschia bag,” he says without looking up or breaking the flow of whatever he's doing. “I know they're not particularly glamorous, or even your preferred… style, but I had a limited selection in the early morning, you might imagine. If you could, clean up and change soon? We have a big day ahead of us!”

Like she cares right now as long as they're clean, she thinks, taking a peek in the bag.

Oh fuck, nevermind, she cares. She sees lace collars and cuffs and honestly, fuck whoever decided that was a good thing to bring back into fashion?!

She's about to protest and ask him if like, he bought scissors too, when his phone chimes.

“Zariah, read message, please,” Mettaton says almost immediately, still not looking up.

“Message from Janet-dragon-emoji-Cho: Hey, I just landed. Where am I going?”

“Respond with my current location.”

“Send current location to Janet-dragon-emoji-Cho?”

“Yes.”

“Done. Is that all?”

“That is all. Thank you, Zariah.” He looks up at Dot, wincing. “If you could take that shower soon, please, little one.”

“Okay, wait, back up,” she says, sitting up. “You said we had a big day ahead of us-- what exactly is the plan for today?”

“We're going to make an appearance on a daytime programme-- Well. Napstablook and I are. I didn't think you would want to come with to that, based on past experiences,” he says, returning to working on her passport, and for a second she's affronted that he would just  _ assume _ like that, until she concedes that yeah, actually, he's kinda right-- having to sit around and watch someone else be on camera when you had nothing to do sucked. “So I asked Janet if she would mind taking an apprentice. You've done lights before for the drama class at your school, correct?”

“I mean, yeah, but I was BAD at it, Mett, why do I have to--”

“Because,” he interrupts firmly. “Even if you're  _ bad at it, _ it's worth it to do  _ something _ . To gain these experiences and meet these people. In the interest of your future--”

“In the  _ interest of my future? _ _”_ she scoffs.

“Yes! The prestige and stories that come from working with me…! So many others have fought for even just a chance on my team! To be surrounded by so many bright, driven people--”

“Dude! Are you listening to yourself?! You're pulling the same shit Mom and Dad and Pete were!” she explodes, because here she was again! Being railroaded into… whatever! Because it was good for her or something?! “Who the  _ fuck _ gave you the right? I don't need your wise, hundred-year-old bullshit about life choices! I already know I can't fuck away a whole year of my life doing jack shit around the world! Like, I get it, I'm the one that stowed away and created a bunch of extra work for you and so I owe you but fuck  _ off _ with the philosophical life lesson cover up! Just fucking say  _ I owe you!  _ Don't make it about this being some kind of growing experience you've gifted me, because your old ass knows what I need better than I do or some shit! It's so fucking...  _ transparent! _ You start doing this bullshit to feed your own ego about this idea that you're someone that helps people, when the reality is that you want me to be grateful! So just fucking  _ say it!” _

Uncle Mettaton is looking up at her, his one unobscured eye wide. It feels sick how satisfying it is, that a dark part of her can find the soft spaces between his carapace and tear away at his insides, can render him speechless, can enjoy how powerful it makes her feel. And every moment that passes without his response, she grows angrier that it worked. She can't stand that he can't even scramble to defend himself. She can’t stand the frozen expression, and she can't stand that he’s doubtlessly running a hundred scenarios on one of his bullshit processors trying to find the  _ exact _ way to make this okay instead of having a  _ conversation _ with her.

She picks up the obnoxiously pink bag from the coffee table.

She refuses to look at him as she gets up from the couch-- and she clenches her teeth, spitting out a curse because it feels like she's walking on broken bones, hardly able to stand the pain. But she’s tougher than that. And more stubborn. She'll hobble her way through her dramatic exit to the bathroom if she had to.

“Thanks for the clothes,” she mumbles.

 

\----------

 

She shifts into something more fleshy and human and plain, with lots of hair she can lather and use all the complimentary shampoo and conditioner on. It's soothing, to be so wasteful and indulgent after getting so worked up. And it's not like Mett or Bloo were going to use it. Micro-whatever-the-fuck needed that special care compound, not… people shampoo.

Fuck… Mett. She feels bad that she lashed out, finally, after getting herself away from that icy look, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving a space that could fill with something like shame. It wasn't like he was trying to be hurtful on purpose. Not like she was. Maybe she went overboard.

But also maybe it would get him to understand. She remembers how you used to say to Dad in hushed tones they thought you couldn't hear, that Mettaton and Pete were thick-headed and convinced they were right, as good as their intentions always were. 

Maybe she doesn't regret anything she said. She could see it now; exiting the shower, and Mettaton apologizes, and lets her go to do whatever. Except, god, she was actually getting kind of excited about the working thing until he made it about helping her? And now it’s like all the bits of her bones are rejecting it like a lit bomb.

If she fucked off and explored she would be taking advantage of him. If she worked on lighting or whatever, it would be admitting that he was right, and that he knew what was best for her future. It was a great big trap with no right answer and standing in the boiling hot shower stewing about it wasn't helping her any.

Her phone chimes. Text message. The hairs on her neck stand on end at the thought of Mettaton texting her an apology or whatever he could say to try and smooth over her emotions. She picks up the phone, leaning out of the spacious, fancy shower.

Her heart lights up. It's not Mettaton.

 

**babiest brother**  
Mom Says You're In Rio With Mettaton

**VOTE TOLSTOY CAN LICK MY ENTIRE ASS 2KXX**  
YEP!! it's like 7 here already, lmao.  
IT'S SUPER PRETTY THOUGH  
What are you doin up so early? :O You need your rest!! your gonna get stunted if you don't get enough dude 

 **babiest brother**  
Worrying About You  
Also Geist Wanted Out And I Didn't Want Him To Wake Mom Up  
Are You Okay 

 **VOTE TOLSTOY CAN LICK MY ENTIRE ASS 2KXX**  
Hell yeahhhh  
I'm in a tropical paradise I'm way more than okay  
Hey can you tell Geist that I love him and I'm gonna miss him so so so so so much and that he's the goodest boy 

**babiest brother**  
Sure  
Can You Tell Me What's Wrong

 

She falls against the shower wall and groans. Because of course she couldn't just have a nice conversation with Codes. Turning off the water, she grabs a towel and, oh wow, these are niiiice towels. So soooooft.

She buries her face in it for one, beautiful, perfect moment before wrapping herself up and sitting on the toilet seat.

 

 **VOTE TOLSTOY CAN LICK MY ENTIRE ASS 2KXX**  
Nothings wrong now that I have the best towels in the world  
Maybe the whole galaxy  
No wonder our galaxy needs guardians  
Aliens are probably coming for our towels  
Woooeeeooo  
Ground control to major tom  
Take your protein pills and put your towel on 

 **babiest brother**  
So... Hitchhiker's Guide 

 **VOTE TOLSTOY CAN LICK MY ENTIRE ASS 2KXX**  
Fuck you're right  
Way to dump my parade straight into the ocean!! 

 **babiest brother**  
No Problem  
Is Mettaton Okay Though 

 **VOTE TOLSTOY CAN LICK MY ENTIRE ASS 2KXX**  
I don't knooowww  
I got real mad at him Codes  
Kind of said some things I know he doesn't like and threw this whole thing he's doing for me in his face just because it wasn't my idea??  

 **babiest brother**  
Like What  
Also Is He Still There 

 

Dot hears a squeal and a commotion of voices echo through the bathroom door. Mett’s friend or whatever arriving, probably. With how spacious everything is, the sound just keeps carrying.

 

 **VOTE TOLSTOY CAN LICK MY ENTIRE ASS 2KXX**  
Yeaaah  
His friend just got here I think?  
But I said that he wasn't being honest about his reasons for keeping me around  
He was trying to make it about him doing me a favor and that like  
~*He knows best*~  
I don't know, I don't really remember  
I think he's really trying to help he's just real fucking annoying about it  
Like adults do 

 **babiest brother**  
That's Fine  
You're Going To Apologize Though 

 **VOTE TOLSTOY CAN LICK MY ENTIRE ASS 2KXX**  
Fuck no!  
He’ll send me home before I'll apologize to him  
Which he probably will, he really doesn't like being told he's wrong…? 

 **babiest brother**  
No He Won't  
He Loves You Too Much  
You Should Apologize Though  
It Makes Things Easier 

She lets her cheek rest on the cold marble wall beside her.

**VOTE TOLSTOY CAN LICK MY ENTIRE ASS 2KXX**  
I’ll think about it  
I'm still mad at him!!  
Also would it kill you to use punctuation, you sound so deadpan?? Like even more than irl dude.  
The teen angst is overwhelming

 **babiest brother**  
Yes. 

**VOTE TOLSTOY CAN LICK MY ENTIRE ASS 2KXX**  
.... Well played… :|

 

The texts stop. He's probably gone back to sleep or something. Because, you know, it’s eaarlyyy. Too early. Why are people up at this hour? Time is fake, and nothing exciting happens at 7am except traffic and the morning news.

No, really. Name one thing that happens at 7am that isn't in another country that happens at 7am.

YEAH. NOTHING.

Or maybe like… yeah, sunrises count, maybe? They're kind of like a sunset’s pastel, unexciting sibling, but…

Ugh. Pastel. She looks in the bag again. Pink is fine, it really is, she's not about that internalized misogyny thing, but pastels look like colors that are tired of being colors. And the  _ lace..!  _ She was never going to get over that lace, the kind that looks like they just took a hole puncher to fabric and called it a day.

But like, the alternative is clothing she just sleep-sweated in, so…

She slips into the blouse, so prepared for it to be awful. It's actually kind of comfy. It's the worst. A garment this bad should not have any plus sides to it, no matter what!

The skirt that’s in the bag also kind of rocks, though. Lace might be in style but thank fuck pockets are too. Tuck that shit in and… wait, no. She looks like a secretary now. Fuck. Maybe she should just lean into it? She didn't need hair this long, she could shift up some glasses…

AHHH, hair! She'd have to ask Mettaton for a comb. Or Bloo… Bloo has really long hair on this latest model, they've gotta have a comb, right?

Whatever. It’ll get figured out. She looks in the bottom of the bag for anything else.

Beige pumps.

…

… She puts her combat boots back on.

By the time she gets out of the bathroom, the mirror has defogged all on its own and the voices in the suite have died down. The bedroom is empty, and she walks out into the… big room of sitting, it's not a living room, Mettaton probably knows the fancy word and--

He’s not here.

The bags are all gone and her passport is left neatly on the coffee table. And, god, she definitely stormed out and left the couch a total mess, but it’s just as clean and perfect as when they had arrived...

His friend is here though. She has to be his friend. Tired-looking with thick, greasy black curls pulled to the side in a bun and a fucking  _ dragon _ on her shoulder, rising from a waterfall of koi.

And combat boots. All the way to her knees.

The lady looks up at her, where she's just gawking away, and waves.

“Hey! You must be Dot, huh? The little stowaway?”

“Uh. Yeah,” she replies numbly, feeling a little flustered? She pulls at the lacey cuff on her sleeve. This is awful.

The lady stands up, and walks over to her, sizing her up along the way. Her eyes linger at her feet, and before Dot knows it she’s stretching out a hand.

“Same boots,” the lady says.

Dot grabs her hand. “Same boots,” she repeats.

Their hands fall apart. She feels like she should say something. There’s this tension between them and she doesn’t even know her and this is SUCH a wild card, she feels so thrown off! She was expecting like… someone just as insufferable and over the top as Uncle Mettaton? But this chick is… so fucking  _ metal. _

“I see that uh, your uncle dressed you up?”

“Aw shit, really? What gave it away?” Dot says, taking a step back and faking alarm at her present state of dress.

Dragon-lady laughs. It’s a super nice laugh, one of those ones that doesn’t sound like it could ever be polite because it’s so unrestrained. “Because you look like a fish walking around in a dress. And also he was complaining about being unable to find anything you’d like all morning to me over text. He sounds like a cool uncle! I mean, I know he’s a cool dude, I’ve worked with him for years, but he actually never told me he had a niece until this morning! You’re like, total news to me!”

Dot blinks. “Really? He fucking loves to show people off!”

“Yeah, right? You go to a party and you’re mulling over which tiny food to eat first and suddenly there’s a cold hard grip around your shoulders, and you’re standing there like. Oh fuck. I sure wish that were death. But it’s not death, it’s Mettaton, and suddenly some big wigs are very interested in what you do and you have to pretend to know who they are? Like HMMM. OH YES. THAT THING YOU FUNDED... OH I LOVED IT... YES I'M SURE YOU WORK VERY HARD. And all you want is to go back to stuffing your face with food. But he's got you stuck.”

“Oh my god,  _ exactly _ like that!” Dot gasps, and they both crumble into fits of laughter.

Fuck, she actually thinks she likes this person.

“But no, I actually didn’t even know Napstablook was his  _ cousin _ until sometime last year. And I had to find out through an interview that got posted online. I think the guy might compartmentalize too hard sometimes. Like, he just doesn’t even think about it when he’s in the zone.”

“That makes sense! Like, he never talks about work when he’s at home unless you ask him first-- Like, uh, I have honestly no idea who you are?”

Dragon-lady barks out a laugh. Oh thank god, for a second she thought she was being a little rude.

“I’m Janet. I’ve managed the lights at a lot of venues over the years and worked with Mettaton a lot-- I actually usually manage his stage back home in Vegas! I got a family back there, moving around from venue to venue doesn’t really do them a whole lot of good. But he really wanted me to come along on this one. Said I was his first and last choice. I think that last bit is a big load of crap, the guy attracts talented people like a bug zapper, buuut… still flattering.” She sighs dreamily, looking out at the window before her attention snaps right back to Dot. “And you. He said he was sticking you with me. Show you the ropes of what goes on backstage. Get you settled in. So actually, if we’re going to do that, we gotta do talk and walk. You ready to go?”

“Uh, yeah! Good as I’ll ever be, it’s not like I brought a lot of stuff on the plane with me,” Dot says. Janet laughs again.

“So the Rio venue is actually just down the street…” She says as she walks away toward the elevator.

Dot leans over to snag her passport and shove it in her pocket before following her there.

She decides that she’ll give the lighting thing a try.

But not for Mettaton.


End file.
